


Maybe Tomorrow Will Be Better

by Darksidekelz



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 08:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8280008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: Drift loves the Lost Light.  He loves the relationships he's made, the journey he is on, how very far he's come from who he used to be - truly he is blessed.  
And yet, some days it's harder to forget that deep down, he doesn't belong here, and he never will.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place some time during season one.
> 
> ~~Might have had a bad day awhile back.~~

Some days were worse than others.

Drift wasn’t a happy mech; he wasn’t exactly unique in that regard.  Most mechs had baggage – four million years of war would do that.  Drift knew this.  But that did exactly nothing to make him feel better.

Sure, there were days when he could laugh and chat with the other bots on the Lost Light.  He could prank Ratchet, get into friendly pissing matches with Rodimus, show up to movie night and have a good time.  And it was fun.  He genuinely considered the bots around him as friends.  But sometimes, it was hard to comprehend exactly what that meant.

Drift had spent most of his life on the outside looking in – guttermech, Decepticon, ex-Decepticon.  He’d never had friends before.  Those who got close tended to die.  On the streets, it was every mech for himself.  Gasket had been the exception, but where was he now?  And the same had been true amongst the Decepticons.  And as an ex-Decepticon, as a wicked, _evil_ creature who had committed terrible atrocities, he’d never quite fit in with the Circle of Light, or the Autobots.  There were too many suspicious stares, trembling chassis.  Drift scared people.  It was fair.  Drift was a scary mech.

He didn’t deserve friends.  He didn’t deserve happiness.  And he couldn’t believe the others when they insisted that he did.  Why should Drift be happy?  He wasn’t like most Autobots.  He’d  _relished_  killing, excelled at it.  He had a body count higher than most mechs on the ship – Pit, most mechs on the ship had probably lost someone to him. 

Some days, it was easy to forget this.  Some days, it truly felt like he was one of the gang.  And some days, it would have been better not to get up in the morning.

Today was one of those days.

Drift knew it from the moment he awoke, could feel the pit of despair bubbling in his tanks, clawing at his spinal strut.  He didn’t want to move.  Let him lie here on the recharge slab and stare at the ceiling for the next day cycle.  It was the only way to keep the others safe.  From him.

But he couldn’t stay.  He was third in command.  He had responsibilities. 

Rodimus had called him to join a land party on an uninhabited planet they’d just docked at, he had a speech to write based on the results of said party.  After that was security detail, and then Tailgate had invited him to a gathering at Swerve’s.  He had a full day planned, and aside from the gathering, he couldn’t exactly neglect his tasks.  If he wasn’t the perfect third in command, then what was he, aside from Decepticon scum?  His job and his religion were all that he had – all that he was.

And so he forced himself up, gave his armor the briefest polish – enough to be presentable, attached his swords, pasted a smile on his face, and stepped out into the hall.

~~~ 

He shouldn’t have come to Swerve’s.  This wasn’t work; he had no obligation to be here.  But somehow, he’d convinced himself to open the door to the bar, to step into the dim, crowded room, to take a seat in between Ratchet and Chromedome, across from Whirl, Tailgate, Skids, and Rewind.

Normally, this was a fun group to be around.  The conversation was lighthearted, the drink was good.  They'd poke fun at stodgy old Ultra Magnus, share in the workplace gossip ('Did you know that Jackpot got himself thrown in the brig?  Yeah!  Mags caught him running an illegal gambling ring!'  'I hear that Hoist and Grapple hooked up!  Why else would they be in the oil rig together all the time?'  'Brainstorm and Perceptor?  Yes or no?')  And, of course, the usual drinking games. 

Drift always found it a little hard to participate, not for lack of trying.  He'd crack jokes and drink with the rest of them, and he was always there to lend an audial to a mech in need, but it was hard.  He may have been invited, but he never felt quite like he belonged, even at the best of times.  At the worst, each lighthearted quip his drinking buddies made sent feelings of hot resentment through him.

_Wow, must be nice to have so little to worry about, that you arrest a bot for_ gambling _of all things.  Trivial little slag-suckers!_

_Why would they be in the oil rig together?  There are a thousand things they could be doing, up to and including their fragging_ jobs _!  Not everything is about interface you sex-crazed lunatics!_

_Brainstorm and Perceptor?  Who cares?!  It's nobody's damn business but Brainstorm and Perceptor's!  Why don't we talk about something important for once in our lives?_

He would never dare say such things aloud.  Pit, he tried his hardest to convince himself that he didn't actually feel them, either.  They were just gut reactions forged from millennia with the Decepticons.  He _liked_ his friends.  He _liked_ their trite little daily lives.  He _did_! 

It was just today – just the whim of his chakras or some other bullshit excuse he could use to justify feeling the way he did.  It wasn't the real him!

But how could he participate in the conversation, when it took all of his effort just to keep the saccharine smile pasted to his face?  They could never be allowed to know what he truly thought.  They would turn him out in an instant.

"So," said Whirl, somehow managing to waggle his brow despite his lack of face.  "I'm in the mood for sharing!  Come on, spill it!  Who was the last bot you fragged?  Rewind,  you're first!"

"Me?  Why me?  Isn't it obvious?"

"Suspicious answer," Whirl said, voice grave.  "I think somebody's hiding something."

"I'm hiding nothing!" Rewind snapped.  "Give me a break, Whirl.  You know the answer is Chromedome!"

"Just had to test ya.  Chromedome?"

"Primus, it's Rewind.  Is this really necessary?"

"What about you, Whirl?" asked Skids.

"What, me?  I dunno, Rack 'n Ruin maybe?  It's been awhile."

Trite.  It was all trite!  What kind of conversation was this?  What was the point?  As best he could tell, this was all an effort at shaming folks for having inappropriate partners.  What kind of friends did that?  How was this supposed to be fun?

"Ey Drift, your turn!  I bet you've had some pretty wild partners, yeah?  It's Megsie, isn't it?"  Whirl joked, waving his glass around, sloshing liquid everywhere.  "No, that woulda been too long ago.  No way you've not slept with anyone since!"

Drift narrowed his eyes.  "I think that is none of your business."

He should have known that Whirl would not accept it right there.  "Oh man, it was _definitely_ Megatron.  I called it!"

It wasn't.  Honestly, he could remember neither the name nor face of the last bot he'd interfaced with.  But it shouldn't have mattered.  And it shouldn't have made him angry.  And yet it did.

His optics flashed, his fingers tightened around the twin hilts of swords that were no longer there.  Had they been allowed on his person in the bar, he wasn't so sure he would have been able to stop himself.  As it was, the thought of leaping over the table to punch Whirl in the face was looking very appealing right now.

"Primus, Whirl.  Drop it already.  Last thing I need is to think about anyone fragging Megatron."  Ratchet sounded annoyed as ever; if Drift hadn't known any better, he would have considered the complaint genuine.  But Ratchet _knew_ Drift, he cared about Drift, and yes, he feared Drift, feared what he might do when pushed too far.  He was right to be scared.  But for a brief moment, Drift found himself appreciating the gesture.

Or maybe he was reading too much into things?  

Thankfully, Ratchet's words were enough to persuade Whirl.  He no longer seemed interested in Drift – not when Ratchet was a better target for the question.  And the conversation continued onwards from there – athletics, romance, energon – the topic at hand meandered along, but Drift found that he couldn't quite participate.  What was there to say?  His life was either too uninteresting to talk about, or too gruesome to _want_ to talk about, and he was well aware that no one cared about his spiritualism.

"What do you think, Drift?" asked Tailgate, a completely innocent question.  Drift had long since lost track of the conversation by this point, pulled from his increasingly mopey thoughts, back to a table of several pairs of optics staring him down, awaiting his reply.  His fists clenched.  He couldn't deal with this anymore.

"I think I'd rather be alone right now," he snapped back.  He hadn't meant to.  He'd wanted to reply like the others did – wanted to be happy and joke and gush and fret about things that didn't matter all that much in the end.  But he just didn't have the energy to fake it anymore.

"Snippy," Whirl drawled, pinching his claws together to illustrate.  "Aww, poor hippy drippy Drift is now _snippy_ hippy drippy Drift!  Aww, does someone a hug?"

Drift wasn't going to retaliate.  He wasn't so easily baited.  He was going to let the air cycle through his vents, he was going to ignore Whirl's taunts.  He was fine.  Everything was _fine_.

"Oh no, Decepticons probably don't do the whole 'hugging' thing, do they?"

"Whirl," Chromedome tried to warn.

"What do ya say?  Get fragged up?  Or just get fragged?"

Drift saw red.  He shouldn't have.  It was a stupid taunt, but there he was, leaping over the table, lunging for Whirl's scrawny neck, wrapping his hands around it, and hoping with all his might to break the damn thing.  Whirl, of course, was no slouch – using his claws to tear up Drift's back and shoulder plates.

"Sorry, your answer's a bit unclear," he snickered.  This mech was _mocking_ him, even from his position half on the floor, where he'd fallen, with Drift on the table, pushing downwards, squeezing with all his might, watching as Whirl's face disappeared, replaced with something a bit closer to home – red eyes, white plating, sharp finials . . .

"Drift!  That's enough!"  Strong hands were pulling him away – Ratchet, Chromedome, Skids.  He didn't fight.  His stupid temper had ruined everything!

"I –" He cut himself off.  He'd lost it, allowed Deadlock to break through for a moment, in front of his _friends_.  _Frag!  Frag!  Frag!_ "I'm sorry.  I – I overreacted.  I shouldn't have done that."  He shook off the hands, stepping away.  "I – I need to leave.  Go cool my head.  I shouldn't be here right now.  I'm sorry."  He wasn't, really.  Sorry that the others had seen that, but assaulting Whirl?  He would do it again in a heartbeat.  Pit, a part of him _still_ wanted to kill the fragging copter, to rip out his spark, feel it gutter away in his hands. 

He was a monster.

It was clear now, however, that he would be best off alone for the moment.  He backed out of the bar, keenly aware of the concerned optics of his friends, glued to him, filled with worry, filled with pity.  Frag the lot of them!  He was better than them!  He didn't need to fill his life with trivial hum-drum bullshit to get his kicks!  He didn't need anyone else! 

Had he a smidgen less self-control, he would have taken off running the moment he was out of the bar.  Instead, he walked, quickly, back to his room, ignoring a greeting from Perceptor, and an inquiry from Ultra Magnus on the way. 

The door to his solo hab suite slid open with a satisfying click, leading him into the dark, empty room before him.  He'd disabled the auto-lights for the room long ago, instead favoring the dim ambient lighting afforded by a crystal lamp, which glowed in whichever color Drift felt like setting it to.  Green seemed an appropriate color for the moment.  It was the color of envy.

Drift let the door slide shut and grabbed Wing's sword from its rack by the wall, planting himself on the floor in the middle of the room, and laying it across his lap.  It was a useless gesture; Wing was dead – he wasn't listening.  But still, there was no denying that the sword was a very spiritual thing indeed.  Having it close helped him feel better. 

And Primus, did he need something to make him feel better right now.

He wanted to die.  His spark was tight in his chest, constricting around its core, leaving him feeling agonizingly empty.  He barely had the energy to sit.  And movement or conversation were out of the question.  If there was a way for him to pop out of existence, if only for a bit, he would have taken it.  But that was nonsense.  Exhaustion reigned supreme.

And without the energy to fight back, his mind was plagued by the worst of thoughts.

_You're weak, disgusting!  You wanted to kill Whirl back there, and for what?  Because he insulted you?  You can't even control yourself that much?_

_They're already horrified by you – what if they knew who you really were?  Not who you pretend to be, but Deadlock in all of his vile glory?  Do you think they'd still invite you to sit with them?_

_Hah!  What does it matter?  You don't even_ like _them.  You only associate with that lot because you're desperate for even the barest hint of contact; you're pathetic. You may as well lock yourself away in your room.  They don't want you with them, you don't want to be there._

_Or maybe you should do everyone a favor and just die already?_

Drift clutched the sheathed sword tightly to his chest, hunching over it, trying for all the world to imagine that Wing was here with him, standing over him, believing in him.

_Wing was a fool to believe in you.  He thought you were worth saving!  But look at you – crying in the dark.  What would he say if he could see you now?_

Why wouldn't it shut up?  Why wouldn't it leave him in peace?  What had he done to deserve this life?

_You know what you did._

"Drift?"

Drift jumped, still hunched over his sword, optics wide and hunted.  Ratchet wasn't supposed to see him like this.  And yet, he couldn't even find the motivation to make himself stand up. 

_Go away_ , he silently pleaded.  _I don't want you to know._

Ratchet always had been bad at following directions.

He strode to the center of the room, kneeling down, laying a hand on Drift's back, murmuring words in a soothing voice that Drift hadn't heard directed at him in far too long.  "Hey, Drift, stay with me.  You're okay.  You're here, you're fine.  I got you."

They were simple words, easy.  They shouldn't have been able to fight off the demons storming inside him, and yet, even simple words had power when wielded by the medic, it seemed.  Drift let the tension ebb from his shoulders, and he slumped slightly further.  "I'm sorry."

"What for?" Ratchet asked, letting his hands work soothing circles into Drift's shoulders.  Such a touch could have been erotic in other circumstances, but here and now, it was more comfort than anything.

"I – I don't, know.  For being _me_ I guess!" Drift snapped back, refusing to meet Ratchet's eyes.  "I'm sorry for not being fun, or funny – I can't talk to the others; I try – it doesn't work.  And this is stupid.  I know it's stupid.  We've all got bigger things to worry about, and I know they don't care, or I think they don't care, and I know I'm just being the same stupid Drift I always am, but I'm _tired_ Ratchet."  He whirled on his knees in a surprisingly-graceful movement, burying his face in Ratchet's chest.  Hesitantly, those arms closed around him.  It made him feel a little more nervous than he would have liked, but he didn't shake them off.  "It's never gonna end, is it?"

Ratchet held onto him a little tighter.  "I don't know, kid.  I don't know." 

They sat in silence for a long moment, before Ratchet was able to find the words to say.  "But I'll stay for as long as you need me."

And that was it.  Ratchet's presence, his complete undivided attention, was a magic charm, that cast out every doubt that threatened to consume Drift's mind.  He was here, holding him, whispering soothing words, stroking the back of his helm – something to focus on, something to ground him.  So long as Ratchet was here, Drift was all right.

It couldn't last.  Eventually, Ratchet would have to return to his life, and Drift to his own.  Eventually those intrusive thoughts, despicable, miserable little things, would return to Drift, overtake him, beat him down.  The moment Ratchet left, Drift would be back to fighting alone.

But there was no helping it.  All he could do was embrace the moment, and hope that his processor could return to normal before Ratchet disappeared.

He laid his head against Ratchet's broad shoulder, staring at nothing, feeding on limited sensation, devouring this rare moment of tranquility like a mech starved.  Drift could never call himself a good mech, and he would never call himself a happy mech, but here, in the embrace of another – of one mech he knew to care unconditionally, he could pretend he was.

Today, it was all he had.

But maybe tomorrow would be better . . .


End file.
